


The Impossible Dream

by papergardener



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Locos Fool Off, Comedy, Crack, Gen, Hector wants to write a song and the world says no, Humor, Post-Canon, dumb shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:32:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: Héctor just wants to write this song. That’s it. That’s all he wants. That is not going to happen.





	The Impossible Dream

“Oh no.”  
   
“Hwuh?”  
   
“I just got the perfect idea for a new song.”  
   
“Hmm, that’s nice Héctor… now go to sleep.”  
   
“But I need to… right now, I just… Imelda?”  
   
But Imelda had immediately fallen right back to sleep, her arms wrapped around his ribs like a vice. And that wasn’t figurative—she had a crazy strong grip, it was like a raccoon with it’s paw around a banana. Except less squishy. He  
   
He would just need to wait until morning, that was fine, as long as he didn’t forget it. So he lay awake, going over the lyrics and the notes again and again, searing them into his brain like a waffle iron.  
   
In the morning, he would write his song, first thing!  
   
(He did not write his song first thing. If he had, things might have gone better)  
 

* * *

  
The workshop! What better place to sit and focus, with all the comfort of home and sensibility of a real studio.  
   
He had to wait until after breakfast and after chores and after listening to Imelda threaten bodily harm to the milkman for delivering nonfat instead of 2% for Pepita.  
   
The workshop was quiet and peaceful as he hunched over the old wooden desk, happily writing out the opening to his song, tapping his finger in a steady rhythm as he worked.  
   
“And some of these, and a few of those… almost there, and… done!”  
   
He held it up, exceptionally pleased with his progress.  
 

“Maybe I should start with a grito,” he murmured. “But how would I spell that?”  
   
“Héctor!”  
   
“Our favorite brother in law!”  
   
He couldn’t help the groan that escaped him as Felipe and Oscar hurried into the workshop, quickly making their way over to them.  
   
“You can be the first to see our newest design!”  
   
“Hey, uh, that’s great, but I’m a bit busy here and… what are _those_?”  
  
“Gators!” Felipe said.  
   
“Patent Pending!” said Oscar. (or Felipe?)  
   
“A shoe revolution!”  
  
“Ta da!”  
  
A long silence stretched as they gazed at him expectantly, and he stared at the monstrosity in their hands.  
“But… they have holes in them,” Héctor pointed out.  
   
“For breathability!”  
   
“Extra comfort!”  
   
“And they’re neon green,” Héctor continued, blinking. “My eyes are literally hurting from staring at them.”  
   
“They’re hip!”  
   
“Young!”  
   
“Eye-catching!”  
   
Héctor looked at their doubled, beaming faces, and could feel the approaching disaster. “Why are you two so eager to die?”  
   
“But—“  
   
“We’re already—“  
   
Oscar’s last word was covered by the loud bang of Héctor’s head hitting the table. He looked down at the blurred paper an inch from his none-nose and remembered what he was doing.  
   
“Well, good luck with that!” Héctor said cheerfully, brushing them off with a hand towards the kitchen. Maybe he should feel guilty, but as long as he was left alone he didn’t care. “I’m sure, uh… Imelda and the rest are going to love… them.”  
   
The twins left, and Héctor went back to his paper.  
   
“Where was I? Oh yeah, _The_ —“  
   
_“What are those abominations doing in my house!”_  
   
“Aaaand I’m done here,” Héctor said, standing and slowly stalking away before breaking into a sprint as his beautiful wife’s angry voice grew louder and more terrifying.  
 

* * *

   
The Art District! That was a perfect place to write!  
   
It was a brilliant idea!  
   
Except it was, in fact, a terrible idea.  
   
Somehow he had ended up sitting beside Gustavo who was apparently keen on making sure he got no progress made on his lovely, amazing song that was still trapped in his head.  
   
“Why are you here again?”  
   
“Same reason as always, to be petty and mean.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“I said you’re sweaty and look like a bean.”  
   
Héctor stared at him, squinting. “I don’t know why we’re friends.”

* * *

  
That was the place!  
  
It was practically deserted and he knew how to get about without being seen. A perfect place to really dig deep and touch the inner most depth of his soul and pour it into his music.  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
He hadn’t expected to run into Ernesto de la-fucking-Cruz.  
  
“This is my home,” Ernesto said, as if it was the most obvious thing as he stared up at Héctor who had barged in through the door to find him nearly fondling a large bottle of something that made his eyes burn.  
  
“Except… this is _my_ home,” Héctor said slowly.  
  
“Not anymore because I live here now. And also because I say so.”  
  
“That’s not… how this works. You can’t just _say_ something is yours and make it true!”  
  
Ernesto shrugged, grinning with his stupid handsome grin. “Eh, worked for me.”  
   
Héctor shoved a finger in the air, mouth hanging open, nearly saying _IT WORKED BECAUSE YOU MURDERED ME YOU_ _PYSCHOTIC MONKEY WRENCH!!_  
  
And then thought better of it.  
   
He sighed, laying a hand over his eyes. “I’m not going to argue about how wrong you are. I just came here to write down this song, okay?”  
   
Without waiting for an answer he went over to _his_ desk (and what… why would Ernesto carve his initials into it? What is he, twelve?) and pulled out the paper and pencil.  
   
Just as he was about write the first, no, second word, he stopped at the sound of Ernesto coming closer.  
   
“Sooooooo...” he said lightly, “This new song of yours. Is it a good one?”  
   
Héctor swiveled his head to stare at Ernesto, leaning over him.  
   
Hmm. Perhaps this was not a good idea.  
 

* * *

   
“All right!” Héctor said aloud as he staggered down the street, very tired. “It’s fine. _It’s fine_. I’m not gong crazy. So maybe that was stupid. Just brush it off!”  
   
It wasn’t crazy to talk to yourself if you’re dead. Dead rules are different.  
   
He was very tired.  
   
“IT’S NOT CRAZY IF I’M DEAD!” he shouted to the sky.  
   
“SHUT UP IT’S 3AM!”  
   
“It’s what now? Oh… oh I’m in trouble.”

* * *

   
Pepita’s birdhouse. That was a fine place to write.  
   
Imelda had looked at him oddly but hadn’t questioned him too much. But none of that mattered! He had to let the rest of the world fall away so he could become one with the music.  
   
Finally, with a deep, deep breath, he once more took out his paper and took his pencil in hand, ready to write out the words and notes that had been plaguing him all day and night.  
   
And he stared.  
   
And stared.  
   
And… stared.  
   
“Fuck.”  
 

* * *

 

And so he exploded.  
 


End file.
